The Other Crowd

by Alex Archer

  “Watch it, idiot!” a man shouted from near the van. “He said not to kill them.”

  The door slammed against Annja’s shoulder. Someone had kicked it from the other side. Wanting to get the attackers as far from Eric as possible, she climbed onto the hood, ran over the car’s roof and jumped off.

  One thug was behind her, and one stepped out from the driver’s side of the van. Only two. But one was armed. And though she’d heard the order to keep her alive, Annja knew from experience that thugs weren’t always good at following orders during the heat of the moment.

  Proof pinged the van’s hood. The bullet ricocheted and more brick wall exploded next to the driver’s head.

  “That’s me bloody van, idjit!” the driver shouted.

  Hearing the shooter’s heavy breaths come up behind her, Annja ducked and swung out her sword, cutting it through the air. The blade connected with nylon jacket and flesh and blood.

  “What the hell?” the shooter cried. “She’s got a bloody sword!”

  Following the swing, Annja put the driver in sight. He bent and lunged, going for her legs. She leaped, higher.

  One foot landed on the hood of the van. She pushed off and flipped backward in the air. The gun went off again. Landing behind the shooter, she sliced the sword across the thick part of his thighs, dragging it through flesh. The wound felled him. He rolled to his side, clutching his legs.

  She kicked his gun under the Mini Cooper. The clearance was too low for anyone to snake out something from underneath.

  The driver wisely put up his hands and pressed his back to the brick wall. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded more shakily than assuredly. “You’re starkers, you are.”

  “You don’t even know who you’re following?” Annja swept the sword out wide, sending blood spraying from the blade and across the front of the white van. A samurai move. “I get to ask the questions.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she pressed the blade under his chin. “Who sent you?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” he mumbled. “I didn’t get a name.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m a feckin’ freelancer!” he protested. “Watch the blade, will you, luv? I think you killed me partner.”

  “He’s not dead. He passed out from the pain. Pain I promise you, if you don’t start talking. Now you’ll have me believe you don’t know the name of the guy signing your paycheck?”

  “It’s all cash now, isn’t it?”

  “What was the order?”

  “To follow the American woman and make sure she gets out of town. Oh.” He shrugged and offered a sheepish, blood-spattered grimace. “Get out of town, luv.”

  “You first.”

  Slamming the sword hilt against his jaw, Annja knocked him out. He fell in a graceless heap. Checking the other thug to ensure he’d passed out, as well, she bent to pat down the driver’s pockets. She found a wallet full of pound notes but no ID.

  Turning, she patted down the other guy. He moaned as she dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. The card stock was thick and edged in gold.

  “Wine,” she read the single word. Below that was a phone number. “Wine?” Wouldn’t a liquor store have a grander name?

  “Annja?”

  She’d forgotten about Eric. Thrusting her right hand out, Annja released the sword to the otherwhere. She hoped he hadn’t seen her pin the thug to the wall with the sword.

  “We should hurry,” she called out. She told Eric to grab his equipment from the hatchback and follow her out from the alleyway. “They’ll come to soon.”

  The redhead staggered out from the Mini, rubbing his jaw. “You punched me!”

  The sight of the fallen men had him sputtering and giving Annja a double take. At the signal, shaking her head negatively, he didn’t ask. She could tell he wanted to, but he earned points for discretion.

  If he didn’t get an A for this project, she’d talk to his teacher personally.

  21

  “Did you find her?”

  “No, she’s not in Brooklyn. Listen, Roux, I have to take off. There’s a business matter I need to look into overseas. And New York isn’t too pleased to have me as a guest, as it is.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I misplaced my passport. I’m here on a waiver. I’d feel more comfortable getting out of Dodge. I’ll bring the painting to Berlin. We can rendezvous there, yes?”

  “Yes, but it won’t do much good without Annja there,” Roux said.

  “Have you spent any time looking for her? Or did the sun fry your thought process?”

  “I’ve tried her cell, but she isn’t answering. Have you given her a call?”

  “No, but I’ll do that. Bet she answers my call first time out.”

  “You and your inflated ego can go right ahead and try.” Roux clicked off.

  Garin handed the baggage claim ticket to the flight attendant and directed her toward his private jet. She’d been quite open to the idea of jetting over to Europe with him for a day or two. A little champagne, very little talk, and the flight would be a dream.

  22

  Annja knew from experience that the sound of a fist hitting flesh is never as titillating as it is in the movies. Movie sound crews could enhance the sound, change it or mix it to make the viewer wince when the smack reverberated with the flesh and muscle that was just punched.

  Most movies didn’t show the moment after impact when the flesh is compressed and the muscles tense and flinch. And the sound came more from the fighter’s throat—a gasp—upon impact.

  Two men Annja didn’t know shifted about the makeshift ring. She’d foregone betting; she wasn’t a gambler unless it was out in the field and required a split-second life or death decision.

  The venue was much cleaner than she’d expected. No back room, basement or warehouse clandestine dive. It looked like an old school gym that had been converted for boxing. The men used the boxing ring, though they didn’t wear gloves, and while no rules seemed apparent, they did respect the referee’s calls.

  After defeating the men in the alleyway she’d considered going to the gardai. They’d been strangely absent from the scene of the disappearances, though. Her intuition told her she wouldn’t get much more interest now. She and Eric had watched as their pursuers came to and took off in a hurry in their van. Returning to the car, Annja and Eric headed for the fight night. The one man she had the most questions for was fighting that night, so she sat watching and waiting.

  The smoke curling from a cigar enticed her to study the man sitting at the end of the bench five feet to her right. He wore a yellow-and-blue plaid suit coat and ankle-high leather boots. A black fedora concealed the side of his face, but she immediately figured him out.

  “Daniel?” she called over the shouting and cheers.

  He looked to her, smiled and got up to join her. He offered a toke from his cigar, which she refused with a polite shake of her head. His gesture revealed a black thumb.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He examined the side of his thumb. “Bad pen,” he said. “Always such a bloody mess. Which one you bet on?” he asked over the din.

  “Neither. You?”

  “Aye? My money is on Wesley Pierce. Slater’s too cocky. He’ll blow all his energy at the beginning and won’t be able to maintain.”

  “You come to these fights often?”

  “Every Saturday night. I am a betting man.”

  She held back the comment I bet you are. It was always the quiet ones.

  “Ma would love to see you for dinner again soon,” he said.

  “Thanks. I may take her up on that. The food at the bed and breakfast is good but your mother’s is out of this world.”

  “Sunday morning is always rashers and toast at me mum’s.”

  “Sounds far too simple compared to the buffet she served up the other night.”

  “Why don’t we make a date of it? Besides, I can’t let you leave the coun
try without showing you my wine cellar.”

  “Wine?” She thought of the gold-edged business card she’d found on the thug earlier. “Do you sell it?”

  “Mostly just a collector. I do barter on occasion. Watch. Slater and Pierce are up.”

  With fascination, and very little disgust, Annja focused as the fight began with a smack of fists and a call from the referee. Wesley and Slater bandied fists, a few kicks and the occasional elbow.

  Both men wore jeans, bare feet and fists. Their chests quickly became slick with sweat and grew red from tenderizing knuckles. Sweat sprayed the air, flying from their hair as a fist connected with jawbone or skull.

  The best way to win a fight is to exude confidence, and both men had that mastered. They didn’t step down, nor did either come on too aggressively. They were judging their opponent, feeling him out.

  Slater seemed the calmer of the two, taking a punch to the jaw or chest and coming right back at Wesley with the follow-through. He showed a firm stance, knees slightly bent. His strong foot was the left one, which allowed him to swing a hard right fist. But even there, he didn’t use a closed fist, but engaged more often the heel of his hand, which delivered more force and prevented the broken fingers a closed fist might risk.

  Wesley was more aggressive, guarding his face with his right, his left hand tucked near his chest and close to his chin. He kept his elbows hugged to his ribs, but swung them out when advancing, which widened his approach.

  Neither man fought dirty. No spleen shots or knees to the groin. Annja was waiting, though. She expected it from Slater.

  To enhance the experience, the room was filled with shouting Irish-and Englishmen. A few that she recognized from the dig stood around the ring. Most Annja didn’t know.

  Eric hung out by the door. The bouncer had absolutely refused to allow any camera equipment inside, and Eric was worried about leaving his stuff out in the Mini with the shattered back window, so he kept a keen eye out. That surprised Annja, but then Eric did a lot to surprise her.

  The kid was no fighter. That was apparent from his winces, and occasionally he’d duck his head into his hands and close his eyes when blood spattered the air and the entire crowd groaned in reaction to the imagined pain.

  “Nice kidney jab,” Daniel commented.

  She had to grin at that. “You ever step in the ring?”

  “Don’t need to,” he said around the cigar. “As you saw, I can pick up a little rage-release now and then simply by joining the fray. It’s in the Irish blood, don’t you know.” He aimed a sly wink at her.

  Was it the Irish blood or merely male blood? Annja wondered.

  Men liked to beat the snot out of one another any chance they got. It was nothing personal. Aggression and the need to let it out were encoded in their DNA. Most men’s DNA, that is. Some simply preferred watching, which seemed to provide as much of an adrenaline high as the actual fight.

  Annja glanced to Eric. Having lost his aversion to the violence, he made a jab with his right fist. There was that primal instinct kicking in. She chuckled and scanned across the crowd.

  Wesley had promised they’d get a bite to eat after this, and she was hungry. He probably wouldn’t mind if she invited Daniel along. But she did also want opportunity to talk to Slater. It had to have been his men after her and Eric earlier. Who else even knew her in this country?

  Focusing on the fight, she narrowed in on Slater. His body was sleek and lean and muscles wrapped his frame like efficient body armor. He had guns that she wouldn’t want to stand the brunt of.

  He reminded her a little of Bart McGilley, her NYPD detective friend in New York. She occasionally sparred with him in the boxing ring at the gym close to her loft. Bart’s moves were smooth and spare, as were Slater’s. He never dropped his guard, and would sooner take a punch to the gut than expose his chin. He was very still, and took everything that came at him rather than bouncing out of reach and risking letting down his strength base.

  On the obverse, Wesley’s moves were all over. He shuffled left and right, but didn’t lift his feet. He was loose but not stupid, yet obviously untrained. His movements were erratic, effectively keeping Slater alert and on his toes. He couldn’t judge what Wesley would do next.

  Slater stuck with straight jabs and punches. Occasionally he’d wrap his fingers into a fist and deliver a blow, but more often than not he kept an open palm and worked on Wesley’s soft spots like the face, throat and gut.

  If he stuck with simple punches like that, Slater would win, Annja decided. Though the match was pretty even, and she much preferred to see Wesley walk away victorious, she figured he’d had less experience in a fight than Slater. His punches were wide and slower, connecting all over Slater’s body.

  Slater took those wild punches by stepping into them. He minimized the distance between connection and thus reduced the impact. Wesley dodged and tried to avoid Slater’s moves. Of the two, Wesley was already huffing and drawing in gasps.

  Slater exhaled as Wesley’s fist smashed his solar plexus. He turned into the punch and was barely moved from his feet. He returned a punch up under Wesley’s jaw that sent a spurt of blood soaring overhead.

  Restraining her need to join in the shouting and to throw out a few encouraging cheers for Wesley, Annja glanced to Eric. He’d moved forward, leaving the door.

  His father may never forgive Annja for this. But he obviously trusted his son wouldn’t get into trouble. What a gift, sending his son off to Ireland to film video for his high school project.

  Slater went for an elbow jab, which removed his guard and allowed Wesley to lunge with a fist. Bone cracked. The crowd silenced for two seconds and then a few groans echoed out, signaling what Annja suspected. The fight had finished.

  Wesley had delivered the knockout punch.

  “Wow,” she muttered. She hadn’t expected Slater would let down his guard like that. The move had been…amateur. And it made very little sense.

  “You see?” Daniel clapped with cupped palms and stood, the cigar chomped at the corner of his mouth. He hooted and offered a raised fist along with the rest of the crowd.

  Annja nodded in acknowledgment when Wesley’s gaze found hers. He beamed and raised both his raw, bloodied fists, bouncing triumphantly to the crowd’s hoots and cheers.

  THE LOCKER ROOM was quiet and dark, save a bare bulb near the back. Everyone was out watching the next fight. Wesley was collecting his winnings, with Daniel standing nearby chatting up the yokels.

  It fit Daniel, in Annja’s mind, that he was a moneymaker as well as money handler. He could have a career as an agent if he wanted. A fight manager, or some such. He may appear gentle, but she sensed the Irish blood running through his veins boiled.

  She wanted to know if the business card was his and how he was connected with a thug who wanted Annja out of town. Or was there a connection? It could merely be coincidence. She should have asked him about it.

  “Thought everyone had their eye on the winner after the fight,” Slater said as she slipped around a concrete wall. The walls and floors were bare. Two rows of dented white metal lockers ran down the middle. A dark shower room sat out of view to the left of the lockers.

  Slater wiped his chest dry. Standing in jeans, he turned to eye her. “You’re cheering for the wrong side, sweetheart.”

  “I’ve always had a soft spot for the loser.”

  He splayed his arms to take the comment as if a compliment.

  “Not that you are. You could have taken Wesley. You were holding back. Why?”

  He smirked and tossed the towel onto a heap of used towels near the outer shower wall. His left eye was swollen but not badly, the skin hadn’t been broken. By morning it would be fine. His throat was red as well as his upper chest and gut. All in all, he hadn’t taken enough damage for a loser.

  “Look at you, thinking you know so much. Why are you here tonight, Creed? Isn’t snooping around dig sites enough for you? You need to get up close to danger, feel
the spatter of blood on your face?”

  “I guess being threatened with a gun to my head wasn’t enough. Your charm is absolutely deadly. I can’t stay away from you, Slater.”

  “Yeah? Well, you should. You let Pierce work his blarney and spend his winnings on you tonight. I hear there’s a pub crawl going on afterward. And with Collins along, digging the cash out of his deep pockets, you can be guaranteed you won’t have to buy a single drink.”

  Daniel’s pockets were deep? She’d initially judged him not so well off, but if he was betting and buying and selling wine, then he probably wasn’t too poor.

  “You really want to get rid of me, Slater. Too bad your thugs weren’t effective. They don’t do the follow very well.”

  “The follow?” He tossed a sweatshirt over his shoulder and turned to face her, hands to hips. An inhale expanded his pecs and tightened his abs.

  Again Annja thought he should not have lost that fight.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Slater said.

  “You had me and my cameraman followed from the hospital. I don’t know who else would have done so.”

  “Who were they?” he asked urgently. “You get a good look at them? What kind of vehicle were they driving?”

  Annja stepped back and took a second to breathe through that one. He didn’t know who had been after her? Or was he an excellent faker? He had thrown the match.

  “Two big guys in an unmarked white van wielding guns and determined expressions. Sorry, I had to take them out.”

  One of Slater’s brows lifted.

  Annja shrugged. “Thugs are stupid. It just takes brains to defeat them.”

  “As you’ve proven with my security at the dig. Who did you say you are again? Or rather, what?”

  “We’ve been through this. Archaeologist. Television host. In the country chasing freakin’ faeries.”

  “Right. Good—if not oddball—cover, but for what, I’m not sure. It certainly isn’t because you want to film the countryside and win a few ratings points.”